He Walks in Beauty
by CalaveraCandiedSkull
Summary: Some men write poetry about the women with whom they fall in love. Some fangirls write poetry about Rogue. - a collection of poems.
1. just

If beauty could ever be put into a word,  
that word would be Rogue Cheney.  
Because there is nothing about him that is simply  
-_just_.

His hair is not just black;  
it is the kind of darkness you get  
when you go caving  
and pass the point of natural daylight  
and turn off your headlamp.

His skin is not just soft;  
it is the texture of that 5000 dollar  
wedding dress, the one you stared at for hours  
and wished you had that kind of money.

His eyes are not just red;  
they are glittering, glistening, gleaming  
garnets against a January sky  
and you can mix all the paints you like  
but nothing can ever capture that colour.

His lips are not just chapped;  
they are cracked and run through  
with caverns as wide and deep  
no, deeper than the Grand Canyon.

His jaw is not just strong;  
it is Chuck Norris on performance enhancers  
and could probably lift the weight  
of the world off Atlas' shoulders.

His body is not just perfect;  
it is a classical Hellenistic marble masterpiece  
without a single chip  
and billions would be paid to have it displayed.

His heart is not just hurting;  
it is an organ caged by barbed wire  
thorns digging into the flesh  
and blood running down the cold steel lines.

He is not just beautiful;  
he is the kind of broken disaster  
that you want to place on an operating table,  
take out your needle and thread  
and gently sew back together.

* * *

**(I know I'm pathetic, please leave me alone)**

**Instead of paying attention in class like most people do, I write poetry in the margins of my papers and recently they've all been centered around Rogue. So I thought, 'what the hell? I'll just dump them all on and see if any of his other fangirls appreciate what I'm going through!'**

**So yeah. From now on, this will become a collection of Rogue-centric poetry, dedicated to all the ladies out there who think he's marvelous :)**


	2. refridgerator

_Haikus are easy  
but sometimes they don't make sense.  
Refrigerator._

* * *

Rogue is a question  
an eternal riddle just  
waiting to be cracked.  
Who holds the key to the code?  
Who can set him free?  
That, too, is a mystery,  
but I hope it's me.


	3. wishing well

**Heeeey, my peeps. Who else wants to give future!Rogue a really long, painful haircut? -slowly raises hand-**

* * *

There is a wishing well that sits  
at the far back corner of the twilight woods.  
Gray stone, brickonbrickonbrick,  
no rope, no bucket, no way to reach the water.  
Is the water it holds magic?  
Can it grant your wildest wishes,  
your most dangerous dreams?  
(_no one knows.  
no one can reach the water_.)

There is a man who sits  
by the wishing well in the twilight woods.  
He is shrouded by shadows  
(_enveloped by them, like family_.)  
Raven hair covers half his face  
redbloodred scarf shields the rest.  
Only an eye stares out  
an eye sharp and dark as pencil lead.  
(_legends could be written with that eye_.)

He sits in a slouch  
back curved and knees curled  
a shell, a shed skin.  
(_lonely. he hugs himself because there is no one else_.)  
Hands with long fingers curl into fists  
white knuckles and sweaty palms  
they shake.  
(_he shoves them out of sight. his hands show his weakness_.)  
He is shrouded by shadows  
like a death shroud, like he is already waiting for his funeral.

Does he know that the water beside him is magic?  
Could he reach it?  
If he did,  
what would he wish for?


	4. destiny

**Rogue, please don't die. :(**

* * *

He sees it all happen in a flash, the future.

He sees himself watching as his country is ripped to shreds, as his world is plunged into tumultuous chaos.

He sees a pair of wide eyes, pleading, set in a green face stained through with red.

He sees the life drain out of those eyes, draining, draining, and all his will to carry on draining with it.

He sees the man who was once his best friend, trying to stop him, begging, pleading, pride be damned.

He sees himself raise his hand against his once best friend, plunge it through his flesh, flex his hand, grin.

He sees himself twisting, rotting, like an apple on the ground.

He sees something he does not recognize.

He sees himself killing a beautiful, blonde girl who doesn't deserve anything, laughing as he does so.

He sees it all, in a pair of eyes identical to his, lit with a maniacal frenzy.

He sees his _destiny_.

So he raises a hand to his head.

He sees his future.

He hates his future.

So he changes it.


End file.
